Episode 08a, VS75 Ethical Considerations pt 1
by Voyager Season 7.5
Summary: In the aftermath of the Borg attack, a member of Voyager's crew takes on a mission that will change his entire life.


Episode 8a  
Ethical Considerations I  
by J.A. Toner  
  
Author's note: I have to apologize for how long this story has taken   
to appear. Real life family considerations have been trying lately, but   
even more, certain recent events made visiting the emotions some of   
the characters go through particularly excruciating, which effected   
my ability to write them down.   
This story was first outlined several months ago, when the season   
was first gearing up for this project. Who knew then that writing   
about rescuers would have such resonance? Yet this story is a   
necessary part of our season, so I had to complete it. I'm not saying   
a few things weren't altered as a result of the events of September   
11, 2001, but then, what wasn't?  
I wish to acknowledge my debt to my fellow writers of Season 7.5   
for not giving up on me and for helping me through some very rough   
spots with this story, particularly Christina, Rocky, and Julie.   
Thanks, so much! I appreciate your help more than words can say.  
  
  
  
Teaser  
  
If the computer had been working the way it should have been, Naomi Wildman   
would have known her quarry was on Deck 5. She would not have needed to stop on   
Deck 8, at Astrometrics, where Megan Delaney told her that Seven and Icheb had   
gone to Engineering to help with the repairs. Or Deck 11, where a harried   
Lieutenant Torres told her to try Sickbay, because the Doctor had asked for   
Icheb's help again.  
As it was, Naomi had to climb through the Jefferies tubes between Decks 11 and 8   
twice, bypassing the section of turbolift damaged during the Borg attack that   
the engineering staff didn't expect to be able to get a chance to fix until   
tomorrow. They were spending the bulk of their time on the computer core and   
Engineering, where Borg modifications and stray bullets had played havoc with   
the ship's systems. They also had quite a time undoing their own "lock down"   
procedure, which made such unpleasant and unanticipated changes to the systems   
that a pregnant half-Klingon Chief Engineer was forced to work more overtime   
than she usually did. Little wonder, therefore, that by the time Naomi reached   
Deck 5, she stomped down the corridor.  
All that changed when she reached the doorway to Sickbay. Remembering who was   
inside, Naomi's feelings of irritation washed away, into the category of   
"insignificant," as they deserved. There were heroes lying in there, and no one   
could say for sure if some of them would ever get down off their beds and walk   
away again. Not even the Doctor.  
This door, at least, was still working right. Naomi stepped inside and stood by   
the door, watching the bustling medical staff for a few moments to see if she   
could sense when she might be able to approach without interrupting something   
they were doing. After a few minutes, she felt bold enough to say, "Hello,   
Doctor. How is she?" not bothering to define who "she" was. They would know.  
"Much the same," the Doctor said quietly, checking the readouts on his medical   
tricorder.  
In a way, she really had not needed to ask her question. The biobed, with its   
halo up and lights signaling that breathing support was being administered to   
the waxen form on its surface, provided enough of an answer. The fact that the   
EMH and Lieutenant Paris were both standing next to Marla Gilmore where she lay   
in her unnatural sleep, concerned looks upon their faces, confirmed her   
assumption.  
"She's not breathing on her own yet?" Naomi asked in a soft undertone. It was   
hard to come in here, the way things were, and speak in a normal voice.  
"Not yet, but we've been able to cut back on the percentage of oxygen without   
any ill effects. That's a good sign."  
She was about to say more, but just as Lieutenant Paris turned around to check   
on Crewman Pierce, whose biobed was next to Marla's, an alarm went off.   
Lieutenant Paris frantically waved, and the Doctor whisked himself to the other   
side of Pierce's biobed. The young crewman's body was jerking in convulsions.  
Naomi waited patiently while the Doctor and the lieutenant worked on their   
patient. She wished she could help in some way, but she was acutely aware of her   
own limitations when it came to helping with medical procedures. She thought   
about slipping off to look for Icheb elsewhere, but she was tired of wandering   
fruitlessly all over the ship. She could see he wasn't in Sickbay.  
For a few feverish moments, it looked like Pierce had lost his battle to live,   
but finally, with the EMH and the senior medic both working on him, the   
crewman's condition stabilized--for the moment. As she observed both the Doctor   
and Lieutenant Paris relax, she asked, tentatively, "Do you know where . . . ?  
"He's in the medical lab," Tom Paris responded with a smile.  
"How do you know who I'm asking you about?"  
"You were looking for Icheb--weren't you? B'Elanna commed me and said you were   
looking for him."  
"She commed you? Is the system back up again?"  
"Not totally, but B'Elanna managed to get it fixed first between Engineering and   
here. Funny, huh? Anyway, since she contacted me just before you came in, I   
figured that was why you were here."  
"Yeah, it was," Naomi admitted sheepishly. "I didn't realize everyone was   
tracking me, that's all!"  
As he moved from Ensign Golwat's bed, where he had been working, to the next in   
line, to check the vital signs of Ensign Bronowski, Tom said, kindly, "We're not   
tracking you. B'Elanna was bugging me about when I was going to be free for   
dinner. She mentioned you were going to nag Icheb about eating, too."  
"Of course I am! He never eats a meal unless I make him eat." She said   
indignantly, then hesitated. "But if he's doing something really important, I   
guess I could come back and bother him about it later."  
"You're not bothering him at all, Naomi. Eating is something he hasn't been   
doing of his own volition lately," sniffed the EMH. "In fact, I told him he   
should go to the Mess Hall over an hour ago, but he didn't want to go until he   
finished with an experiment."  
"Then you can spare him for an hour or so?"  
"Two hours, at least. Demand that he regenerate for an hour afterwards as well.   
It should refresh him. It's been almost a week. And then he can come back to the   
lab to work at his project."  
"Two hours off, huh? You're all heart, Doc," Lieutenant Paris drawled, but his   
wink at Naomi reassured her that he was kidding. As she turned to go, she could   
hear the two of them bickering about duty rosters. Joking--and bickering--were   
par for the course when the two were together in Sickbay. And after all they'd   
been through together for the past few days, probably necessary.  
*^*^*^*^*^*  
As she entered Med Lab 1 and caught her first sight of her friend, Naomi felt   
her heart skip in that peculiar way it had developed lately whenever she was   
around him. A little flustered, Naomi slipped into what she and her mother both   
called her "busybody mode."  
"You look exhausted, Icheb, and hungry, too. Time for dinner!" she scolded   
cheerfully.  
He raised his head slightly. A second later he put it down again, as if he were   
too fatigued to hold it upright for longer, and said quietly, "I have two more   
samples to examine before I leave, or I will have to redo the experiment."  
"Is there anything I can do? If both of us are working, maybe you'll be done   
faster."  
"The equipment is doing the work now. Thank you for the offer." Naomi,   
encouraged by the wisp of a smile he sent her way, sat down at the work station   
next to his to wait for him.  
"The Doctor told me he let you go to dinner an hour ago."  
"I believe that would have been the last place you would have looked for me."  
"You've got that right," she laughed. "The Doctor also gave me strict orders to   
tuck you into your regeneration cubicle after you've had a chance to eat. He   
wants you rested up so that you can work even harder after you get out of it.   
He's such a slave driver," she confided.  
"That seems to be a popular condition on board this ship," he replied, with a   
sideways glance that made her laugh again. She enjoyed those few seconds of   
attention, even though that was all she got from him. A beeping sound from one   
of the control panels in front of him snatched it away from her again. As his   
fingers nimbly performed a series of procedures, followed by a second beeping,   
lower pitched than the first, Naomi watched him, stifling a little sigh. From   
the intense way he was working and with all of the people still needing   
treatment for injuries because of the attack, she knew it had to be a very   
important experiment.  
She waited patiently until he raised his head again and stared in front of him,   
oblivious to her presence. His stare unnerved her a little. Finally, she broke   
the spell by asking, "Are both of your samples analyzed yet?"  
He blinked and moved his head slightly, as if awakening from a deep sleep. "Not   
completely. However, I can recalibrate the instruments to finish by themselves   
now. Then we can leave."  
"Well, then, recalibrate them, and let's get out of here! I'm hungry!"  
"I will need only seconds to do what I need to do."  
"OK," she said, mollified, and stood up to wait by the door while Icheb   
instructed the instruments to continue doing whatever he was having them do. She   
really needed to find out more about medical procedures. Both her mother and   
Lieutenant Paris were considered vital to Sickbay operations, she knew. She   
would have to add Medic courses to her "classes I need to take" list. It would   
be one way of spending a little more time with her friend Icheb. The thought   
cheered her up even more.  
*^*^*^*^*^*  
Naomi was unable to see Icheb's face as he worked. If she had, her upbeat mood   
may have vanished once again. The set of his mouth was grim; and just before he   
turned towards her, the far away look returned to his eyes. At that moment,   
Naomi had no idea that Icheb was not merely helping out the medical staff and   
caring for those still needing medical treatment after the Borg Elite Force   
attack. He was a Young Man with a Mission. And that mission would be   
successfully completed somehow, even if Icheb had to sacrifice more than he   
wished to accomplish it. It was his destiny.  
*^*^*^*^*^*  
Act 1  
"I'll only be bothering you for a few more minutes, Captain."  
"Take all the time you need, Crewman Tessoni. I'm not fond of holes in my Ready   
Room wall," Captain Janeway said, glancing up from her PADD and smiling at him.  
Returning her smile, he went back to sealing the patch of carpet over the   
repaired hull plate near the Ready Room viewport. Kathryn returned to her lists   
of repairs--the "so critical they've already been made," the "priority repairs   
that can't be finished until the computer and replicators stop acting twitchy,"   
and the "can wait until the criticals and priorities have been completed." She   
would have considered her Ready Room wall one of the latter, but Commander   
Chakotay had other ideas. Of course, hull integrity would have failed without   
constant shield reinforcement in that spot; and dependence upon shields for a   
long period of time this close to the bridge wasn't standard operating   
procedure; she would forgive his sending Mr. Tessoni in to work in her sanctuary   
while she was in residence--for the moment. She would have to say something to   
Mr. Paris, however, about venting plasma in nebulas to create fireworks as a   
diversion for an escape. Next time, she might not have a ready room to return   
to!  
Perhaps it was her traditionalist heritage, but after a quick perusal of her   
lists, Kathryn found herself watching the young crewman in fascination as he   
worked. The wall now looked as pristine as when she first laid eyes upon it at   
Utopia Planitia on the very first day she visited her new ship. Mr. Tessoni   
proceeded to kneel on the floor, cutting away and then replacing a section of   
carpeting which had been damaged by the breech. She was impressed by the care   
which he took to fit the replacement so carefully and smoothly that, like the   
wall, she was sure she would never notice the boundary between old and new   
unless she was staring at it from mere centimeters from the surface.  
She was so engrossed that she didn't realize he'd said something until several   
seconds after he had said it, and then had to excuse herself and ask him to   
repeat what he'd said.  
"Sorry to bother you, Captain. I was just wondering if you liked to repair   
things."  
"Warp cores. Impulse drives. Bioneural networks. Crashed computer linkages. That   
sort of thing. Not walls or floors. You're very good at that, Mr. Tessoni. I   
can't even see the difference from here. May I see it close up?"  
"It's your carpet, Captain," he replied, but with a grin of pleasure on his face   
broader than any she could ever recall seeing on him before. Not that he'd had   
much occasion to grin with pleasure since she'd known him, of course.   
Considering all the sorrows of the past few days, it was especially good to see   
it now.  
"Remarkable work, . . . Angelo, isn't it?"  
"That's my name." The grin grew even wider.  
"Where did you learn to do such fine work? And so quickly, too!"  
The grin vanished. His eyes slipped away as he answered, "We learned to do just   
about everything in a hurry on the Equinox, ma'am."  
She could have kicked herself. Why did that have to come up now? It was just as   
much a sore subject for her, considering her own regrettable actions during that   
time, as it obviously was for him. Now, she had some repair work of her own to   
do with Crewman Tessoni. "I'm sure you did. I'm glad you haven't given up on   
doing quality work, despite the need for haste."  
He nodded, but the easy interaction between them, so welcome after the intense   
period of activity, stress, and grief they had been going through since their   
latest encounter with the Borg, had dissipated as completely as concrete   
evidence of damage to her Ready Room.  
As he turned to gather up his tools, she breathed deeply to disguise her desire   
to sigh aloud and sat down again behind her desk, returning to her lists.  
A minute later, she became aware that the young man was standing in front of her   
desk. "Yes, Crewman?"  
"Captain Janeway, I . . . well, actually, all five of us have been wondering if   
any of your messages--the data stream messages, I mean--have ever mentioned the   
Equinox, or Captain Ransom? I've heard there's been some conversations about the   
Maquis, but what about us? Has anything been decided about what's going to   
happen to us, when we get home?"  
"There have been a few references to your situation," she said carefully. "We've   
been exchanging logs ever since the Pathfinder project first contacted us, but   
as far as I know, there's been no serious talk about what would happen to the   
five of you." Not that I know of, but I'll just bet there's plenty they haven't   
let me know about, she thought grimly.  
"I see." He looked down at the floor in front of him, as if preparing himself   
for hazardous duty, before meeting her eyes again. "What have they been saying?"  
"They haven't said much up to now. I've been the one talking the most. They've   
asked for progress reports, which, I assure you, have been favorable. I've   
reported to the admiralty that you are all doing what we've asked of you. I'm   
certainly pleased at how you've have pitched in with repairing Voyager."  
A small smile, minuscule compared to the previous one but still welcome,   
appeared on his face. "It's our ship too, ma'am," he said.  
The Ready Room door chime interrupted them. As Kathryn called, "Enter," and   
exchanged greetings with her first officer, the crewman bent down and picked up   
his tool box. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the young man   
hesitate. "Is there something else, Mr. Tessoni?"  
"Yes, Captain. I was wondering if I could tell the others what you just told me?   
I mean, the others who are able to understand . . ." As his voice trailed off to   
a whisper, Kathryn knew that his thoughts, as had hers, had strayed to the young   
woman who might never hear what others had been telling her again, even though   
several members of the crew spent some of their rare and precious off-duty time   
talking and reading to Marla Gilmore, hoping to bring her back to consciousness   
with that old but still valid method.  
"Of course you may. Thank you for your fine work."  
"Just doing my duty, ma'am," he said, nodding respectfully to Commander Chakotay   
as he passed him near the door.  
"What was that all about?" Chakotay asked.  
"He asked me about what has been said about the Equinox crew in the data stream   
transmissions."  
"And what did you tell him?"  
Janeway sighed. "That they've been favorable--which is true--but I have to admit   
they've been more 'lukewarm' than whole-hearted, as I once had hoped."  
After his non-committal murmur, she continued, "I couldn't bring myself to tell   
him that while Starfleet has agreed to consider the 'Equinox 5's' time on   
Voyager as 'time served,' their Starfleet careers are over as soon as the ship   
returns to the Alpha Quadrant. Whether they will be paroled or serve longer   
sentences will be at the discretion of Starfleet, or whichever court ends up   
with jurisdiction. My final report will be a major factor in the decision, but   
what can I say? None of them ever volunteer for missions. They're not a part of   
the crew's social life. They do their duty, and nothing more."  
"It's hard to do more when the opportunity isn't there."  
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.  
"That Starfleet has already taken a position on their fate, and unless we--or   
you, more likely--step up to defend them, they might have been better off   
finding a planet in the Delta Quadrant and settling down there--or even stayed   
with Captain Ransom to the bitter end."  
"I can't believe I'm hearing you say that."  
"Why not? Unless we find a way to make some more huge jumps forward in our   
journey, we'll be traveling for another two decades, at the very least. How can   
anyone say that the 'Equinox 5' will never do something heroic enough to redeem   
themselves before then? They've never been ASKED to do anything for the ship--in   
fact, they've been actively discouraged from doing so by their circumstances."  
Janeway became even icier. "That's absurd. Look at what Marla Gilmore did in   
Engineering!"  
"The exception that proves the rule. B'Elanna has been assigning engineering   
tasks by ability. She never worries about who is Starfleet, who's Maquis, or who   
came from the Equinox. Marla was in Engineering when we needed her, and she   
defended the ship without regard to her personal safety--and may have sacrificed   
her life because of it. Will your report to the admiralty be 'lukewarm' about   
what she did?"  
"You already know the answer to that, Commander," she said in the dangerous tone   
that indicated the topic was to be changed immediately, if not sooner.  
He did not or would not pick up on her warning. "Kathryn, you've ordered me to   
give them the 'leftover' duty assignments. They work more split shifts than   
anyone else on board the ship. They're always exhausted. It's hard to be a part   
of the social life of the ship when you always seem to be on duty during   
ship-wide get-togethers. Yet in a crisis, especially this last one with the   
Borg, they all behave admirably. Maybe giving them working patterns and   
responsibility like the rest of the crew will make them more part of the ship's   
life. It isn't ethical to complain about their lack of shouldering of   
responsibility otherwise."  
She almost snapped back "Enough!" but what he said hit too close to home. There   
was a lot of truth to what he'd said--too much for her to be comfortable about   
it, especially now, when five crew deaths in one attack had already frayed her   
nerves.  
In a deceptively calm voice, in a deliberate attempt to quell her own uneasy   
conscience, Kathryn allowed, "I admit, the surviving fragment of the Equinox   
crew has served competently since they've arrived, and that they've done it   
without complaint, from what you claim, speaks in their favor. Still,   
rehabilitating their reputations with Starfleet may be an insurmountable task.   
You know the excuse, 'I was under orders,' historically hasn't carried any   
weight as a defense when it comes to atrocities like those perpetuated on the   
Equinox."  
"I can't deny that, but from what Captain Ransom said about them when he sent   
them over--that they were "the best of them"--and from what they've let slip in   
dribs and drabs to us, it's also clear they were very unwilling participants in   
what happened. We know at first hand what those alien attacks were like. How   
much was 'atrocity,' and how much was self-defense for these five?"  
"Stealing equipment from our ship . . ."  
"Lessing and Gilmore have expressed their remorse for participating in actions   
against Voyager. They were manipulated by their superior officers to steal that   
equipment, Kathryn. You know that. How do the brass in Starfleet feel about some   
of they actions we've taken? Our crew follows your orders even when they don't   
like them . . ."  
"I can think of one who questions them vigorously at times."  
His intense expression broke into a quick, but genuine grin at that. "Not that   
certain people listen to me most of the time. And I do follow your orders   
anyway. Most of the time."  
She nodded her head affirmatively, her lips pursed. Almost all the time was more   
accurate, but she let it pass. She could see him getting wound up to say more.  
"Kathryn, we both know the lengths you've gone to in the data stream   
transmissions, insisting that Starfleet pardon the Maquis based upon their   
records and the fact that they are just as much 'your' crew as the regular   
Starfleet members have been. Now, I'm asking you to do the same thing with our   
Equinox people. After what they've been doing for the past year and a half,   
after Marla's heroism, let's assign them tasks so they can show whether or not   
they are worthy of pardons from Starfleet, too."  
As peeved as she was by his frankness (what else is new?, she though cynically),   
she may have been even more peeved at herself for not already rescinding that   
punitive order regarding the schedules of the Equinox crew. She'd never meant   
for it to go on so long. She just never thought about lifting the order   
before--probably because she did her best to avoided thinking about the Equinox   
crew at all. Thinking about them meant thinking about her own behavior towards   
Noah Lessing. Not her finest hour, not by a long shot.  
After several very long seconds of heavy silence, Kathryn finally said, in an   
astringent tone, "I will concede your point that they will be tested better with   
a schedule more in line with the rest of the crew's. From now on, give them   
assignments with enough risk so we can see how far they have come. It will be up   
to them see what they do with this opportunity. Now, can we talk about whatever   
it what was you wanted to talk to me about when you came in?"  
"Harry found out why the computer doesn't seem to know where anyone is. It's not   
a computer problem, actually--it's a sensor problem. The Borg's invasion of the   
computer core crashed the connection between the monitoring function of the   
internal sensors and the location programs of . . ."  
"I don't need a long explanation, I just need it fixed! It's a priority!"  
"Harry reprogrammed the computer, and he has a crew working on fixing the   
sensors. In less than an hour, when that's done, the system should be working   
properly again."  
"Wonderful! Now, for the next item on the list . . ."  
"Dinner?"  
"That's not next, Commander."  
"It ought to be."  
She arched her brow, wanting to say something about who was taking orders now,   
but then sighed. She needed some down time to relax--and she was hungry. "You   
win, Commander. But we'll stop by Sickbay first, if you don't mind."  
All trace of light banter left his voice and expression. "I don't mind at all. I   
was thinking about suggesting it myself."  
Smoothing her hand over the front of her uniform, she wearily took to her feet.   
She really was famished, but first things must come first.  
*^*^*^*^*  
Although she was able to get Icheb to talk to her during dinner, Naomi couldn't   
help being worried about her friend, and she couldn't think of a way to help   
him. When Seven had first come aboard Voyager, Naomi had been petrified of her.   
After a time, her fear turned into a hero-worship second only to what Naomi felt   
about her captain. When the children of the Borg came on board, she became a   
friend to them all, but especially to Mezoti. Once the rest left the ship,   
leaving Icheb behind, Naomi became his close friend. She thought she knew how to   
cheer him when he was upset or worried about something.  
The Borg attack, and especially, the Queen's casual dismissal of Icheb, had   
affected him deeply. He had seemed more upbeat when they had left the medical   
lab, but all the way to the mess hall, his mind kept wandering away from their   
conversation. In the turbolift, she'd even asked Icheb, "Are you hearing the   
Borg Queen again?"  
"No," he replied, giving her that quicksilver grin of his that she loved, but he   
became distracted again by the time they arrived at the mess hall and got in   
line. Icheb was silent when Neelix asked him what he wanted to eat until Naomi   
poked him with her elbow, prompting him to say, "Your special." Since Icheb   
hated Gurullian chowder and steamed Chadre-Kab, Naomi asked him if he were sure   
before ordering her own chowder. And now, unsurprisingly, the chowder was   
getting cold while he picked over his Chadre-Kab.  
She sighed, then cheered up when she saw her mother get into line. Naomi waved.   
Maybe Mom would be able to think of a conversational subject to keep Icheb's   
attention from wandering.  
*^*^*^*  
"Oh, no, not again!" Sam Wildman groaned to herself, pasting on a weary smile as   
she returned her daughter's wave. After working in Sickbay all morning, and then   
drawing an extra half shift helping out in Engineering, the last thing she   
wanted to do was to choke down dinner--again--while Icheb gazed soulfully at her   
oblivious daughter. Enough, already! Was having a quiet meal with her daughter,   
and only her daughter--so much to ask?  
"Samantha! How are you doing today?" Neelix said cheerily, although with a bit   
less enthusiasm as usual.  
"Exhausted. And you?"  
The Talaxian chuckled. "That about sums it up. I think everyone feels that way.   
Repairs, repairs, repairs. And of course, we're pretty short-handed everywhere,   
covering for the people in Sickbay. And everyone is hurting pretty badly over   
those who never even made it to Sickbay. A lot for a morale officer to do."  
"All that, and cooking for us, too," Sam said, glancing back towards the table   
where her daughter sat, feeling a little ashamed she'd been thinking such mean   
spirited thoughts about Icheb. She could see the haunted look on his face.   
Tonight, she had a hunch, calf-eyed looks at Naomi wouldn't be that much of a   
problem.  
"Speaking of my cooking, you still need to make a dinner selection," Neelix   
said. "And if you don't see anything you like, there's always the replicators."  
"No, your chowder and Chadre-Kab will be fine. Maybe a little salad would be   
good, too."  
"Chowder and Chadre-Kab it is. Why don't you come around into the kitchen and   
put your salad together yourself--I've run out of the greens I mixed earlier.   
And if you don't mind my company, I think I'll have some myself. Chell's just   
finished his meal, and he's my relief."  
"Of course, I'd be delighted to have you eat with us tonight."  
"Good. If I don't miss my guess, my morale officer skills may be needed at your   
table, too."  
"Oh, my, Neelix. Am I letting it show that much?"  
Sam wasn't sure that he'd heard her. Chell bustled into the kitchen at that   
moment, and Neelix didn't answer her right away. When Neelix had finished   
updating Chell on the main and readily available dinner choices, however, he   
stood next to her, ostensibly helping her build her salad, saying in a sotto   
voce tone, "I was referring to Icheb, but is something wrong with you,   
Samantha?"  
"It's Icheb. He's a very nice boy, but Neelix, he's always there! When he isn't   
eating in here with us, he's eating with us in our quarters. Or he and Naomi are   
studying together . . . and when he isn't there physically, Naomi is saying,   
'Icheb did so-and-so today,' or 'Icheb says I should do that.' Or, 'What do you   
think Icheb will say about this?' It's driving me crazy. And the way he looks at   
her all the time . . . she's growing up fast enough, Neelix. I don't want her   
rushing into anything she can't handle." As she finished, Sam looked over at   
Chell, afraid she'd spoken loudly enough to hear. He was the ship's biggest   
gossip. The Bolian was busy talking to Tal Celes and Billy Telfer, however, and   
seemed unaware of the conversation going on in back of him.  
Neelix murmured back to her sympathetically, "I can imagine that's very trying.   
Adolescents are like that everywhere, you know."  
"Adolescent? Naomi isn't even seven yet."  
"Biologically she's seven, but she's more like fourteen-year old human, isn't   
she? Not that I've known any fourteen-year-old humans, of course."  
"I'd like to say that makes me feel better, but it doesn't. What should I do,   
Neelix? I feel I need to cool things down a little, but do you think I should   
just let things follow their natural course?"  
"Icheb is a fine young man. I really don't think he's going to create any   
problems for you. To tell you the truth, I was more than a little worried Naomi   
might get involved with someone who was much too old for her until Icheb came on   
board. Everyone else on the ship is so much older."  
"Oh, my, I never even thought of that! And she's almost always been around   
adults, so that could happen so easily!"  
"Icheb isn't your usual adolescent, either. He's very serious--a little too   
task-oriented for someone his age, if you ask me. Naomi is very good for him,   
too, you know."  
"I know," Sam replied, picking up her tray and heading past the chattering Chell   
towards the table where, she could now see, her daughter was keeping up her end   
of a very one-sided conversation.  
"Besides, I'll be happy to serve as my goddaughter's chaperone."  
Sam laughed ruefully. "I accept!" She didn't know whether to be happy or sad   
about the offer, but she had to admit, she felt better now that he'd made it.  
As they sat down at the table with the young people, Neelix called out, "Well,   
well, how are the two of you doing with your studies in the middle of all this   
confusion? Naomi, when are you taking your entrance exams with Mr. Tuvok? Have   
you been helping her, Icheb? No fair giving her the answers, now . . . that   
would be cheating!"  
As the Talaxian chattered away, immediately engaging Icheb in small talk and not   
permitting him the luxury of dwelling upon whatever had been bothering him, Sam   
acknowledged to herself once again just how good Neelix was at his job--or jobs.   
They were lucky to have him.  
*^*^*^*^*  
Act 2  
" . . . afterwards there came a King's son into that country, and heard an old   
man tell how there should be a castle standing behind the hedge of thorns, and   
that there a beautiful enchanted Princess named Rosamund had slept for a hundred   
years, and with her the King and Queen, and the whole court . . . ."  
As he made his final rounds and waited for B'Elanna to send word she would   
finally be leaving Engineering, the soft voice of Harry Kim followed Tom around   
the room. Ever since Harry had come in with Captain Janeway and Commander   
Chakotay, congratulating him for successfully reprogramming the computer core to   
cooperate with the sensors, the ensign had been reading to the silent Marla   
Gilmore. The old fairy tale was all too fitting a subject for a comatose   
patient. Tom just hoped this sleeping beauty would wake up. It wasn't looking   
very good for her at the moment.  
Despite her sternly-voiced qualms about their ineffectiveness when it came to   
repairing neural pathways, Seven had agreed to allow her nanoprobes to be used   
on Marla today. Why not? Nothing else had worked. But Seven's reservations   
seemed to be well-founded. The neural monitor fixed to Marla's forehead had   
detected no change in her brain wave pattern. The only alternative treatment the   
EMH could come up with was to put her in stasis for the rest of the trip home,   
or until they met someone with a cure. It might not take a hundred years, but   
Marla would be asleep, just the same. And they might as well do the same for   
Darren Pierce, before his increasingly intractable seizures shorted out his   
brain completely.  
No wonder Tom preferred to be a pilot. Even breaking the news to the captain   
that his nifty maneuver had ripped a hole in her ready room wall hadn't been as   
tough as contemplating the netherworld of life in which Gilmore and Pierce were   
hovering.  
". . . at last he came to the tower, and went up the winding stair, and opened   
the door of the little room where Rosamund lay. And when he saw her looking so   
lovely in her sleep, he could not turn away his eyes; and presently, he stooped   
and kissed her. She awaked and opened her eyes, and looked very kindly on him.   
And she rose, and they went forth together. The King and the Queen and whole   
court awoke and gazed on each other with great eyes of wonderment . . ."  
:::Torres to Paris:::  
"Paris here. I hope you're ringing me to let me know you're delegating jobs to   
your staff for the rest of the night."  
:::As a matter of fact, I am. Five minutes--ten minutes, tops, and I'll be   
there.:::  
Tom knew that would mean twenty minutes, minimum, but he kept his voice even in   
reply, "I'll meet you half-way. Paris out."  
". . . lived very happily together until their lives' end." Harry's voice  
ended with a flourish.  
Tom was about to say, "Bravo," but the word died on his lips at the expression   
he saw on his friend's face. Oh, no, not again! Not many women were as   
unattainable as those in a sleep as unnatural as Marla Gilmore's!  
"How do you think she looks today, Tom? Is there a little more color in her   
cheeks than yesterday?"  
"Possibly," Tom replied, noncommittally.  
Harry glanced up, his face flushing. "Now, it's not like that, Tom. I'm not   
doing it again. I'm not falling for her."  
"Did I say you were?" Tom couldn't keep the light touch out of his voice,   
however, and tried to mitigate it by saying, "I actually think that this time,   
you might be onto something. She's not a hologram, or a . . . well, I don't have   
to do the whole litany again, do I? Marla's a very nice girl. I think she'd be   
good for you."  
"If she ever wakes up."  
Tom couldn't deny that. Unfortunately, it went without saying. "Have a little   
faith in the Doc and me, Harry. We'll find the answer. She's alive, so there's   
still hope."  
Harry shrugged in agreement, but as he opened his mouth to say something else,   
the doors to Sickbay swished open. Noah Lessing and Angelo Tessoni entered. "How   
is she today, Lieutenant?" Noah asked Tom.  
As he responded to the question, Tom saw Harry stand up and fetch a second   
stool, which he placed on the other side of the biobed from where he had been   
sitting. When Tom finished his discourse on Marla's unchanged condition, Harry   
handed the book to the Equinox crewmen. "Noah, why don't you and Angelo take   
over. I'm going to get back down to Engineering. Maybe I can convince B'Elanna   
to call it a night, Tom."  
"I should be going, too. Doc? You there? I'm leaving. My shift was over long   
ago." Tom called out.  
The air shimmered in the doorway of the sickbay office as the EMH appeared.   
"Yes, yes, Mr. Paris. You may go, as long as you drag your wife back home to get   
some rest. She's sleeping for two, now, and she hasn't been doing the best job   
of it the last few days."  
"Nobody has, Doc," Tom said resignedly.  
"True. Go on, then, and get some. Both of you," the Doctor scolded.  
After making a quick report to the EMH, Tom followed Harry out of Sickbay,   
catching up with him at the turbolift. "Harry? Can I ask you something? Why do   
you always disappear whenever Noah or the other Equinox crew come by to see   
Marla? They won't bite!"  
The ensign shrugged again as he called out the decks to which Tom and he needed   
to go. "They need some time to be alone with their friend. I can understand   
that. So I let them."  
Tom did not miss the plaintiveness in his friend's voice. "Harry, would you want   
to stop by for something to eat in our quarters? I'm sure B'Elanna would . . ."  
". . . bite off my head for interfering in your personal time," Harry laughed.   
"Go on home, Tom. I'll get her home to you soon."  
Tom smiled gratefully as the turbolift doors opened at his deck. "I owe you one,   
Har."  
"You owe me a whole bunch! But don't worry. I don't plan to collect tonight."  
*^*^*^*^*  
As the door closed behind Tom, Harry sighed. He almost wished Tom had gotten on   
his back for his "unattainable" women tonight. It might irritate him, which   
would take his mind off his loneliness. Harry would give anything to have   
someone to go home to every night, the way Tom did.  
Harry walked into the controlled chaos that was Engineering in full repair mode,   
nodding a silent greeting to Seven as she passed him. Even she looked tired, but   
then, everyone was. His department was actually catching up, now that the   
computers were working right again. He could hear B'Elanna's voice, almost too   
mellow, considering the circumstances. After catching Seven's eye and consulting   
with her, they approached B'Elanna together.  
"Lieutenant Torres, it is time that you left. Twenty hour days cannot be good   
for either you or your fetus," Seven said.  
"Don't say it! Tom put you up to this, didn't he?"  
"He knows better than that. But you know, maybe Seven and I can put together a   
maturation chamber for the baby, B'Elanna. Then you wouldn't have to rest at all   
. . . "  
"All right, all right! I'm going! Just make sure you get every one of those   
injectors back into alignment by 0700 tomorrow!" B'Elanna ordered.  
"We will comply," Seven replied, exchanging an amused grin with Harry.  
"Four minutes, thirty-eight seconds," Vorik pronounced as the door closed behind   
B'Elanna.  
"Excuse me?" Harry asked, turning towards the Vulcan engineer, who was unfolding   
himself from underneath the console he was repairing.  
"That was most efficiently done. We have been trying to send Lieutenant Torres   
to her husband for the past two hours. You managed to complete the task less   
than five minutes, and after only one comment. Congratulations, I believe, are   
in order."  
"Thanks, Vorik. I think."  
After consulting with Seven about which repair task to assume, Harry watched her   
as she strolled away from him towards her own set of duties. He couldn't help   
enjoying the view--and sighing. A lost opportunity there, too. Maybe Tom was   
right. Could Harry be setting himself up for the "loneliness of command" in the   
future, in the way starship captains often felt themselves compelled to be?   
'Except,' Harry had to admit to himself ruefully, 'I can't even get myself to a   
rank higher than ensign!'  
*^*^*^*^*  
"How old do you think she looks tonight, Commander?" Janeway commented.  
Chakotay glanced up from his food and watched Naomi as she passed by their table   
with her mother and Icheb. "I'm not really sure. Not like a seven year old,   
though."  
"The way she's growing, she'll have gone from pre-teen to adult in less than a   
year. She looks fifteen now, at least, and a month ago, she didn't look a day   
over thirteen!"  
"If you say so. I'm not an expert in the growth rates of young girls.   
Particularly half-Ktarian ones."  
"I don't think anyone is an expert in half-Ktarian growth rates."  
"I think you're right," he grinned in reply. "Although, I'd say that Icheb is   
willing to learn."  
"Poor Samantha. She's been . . . "  
The captain's remark was interrupted by her commbadge.  
:::Captain Janeway, I apologize for interrupting your meal::: Tuvok said from   
his post on the bridge.  
"We were just finishing, Commander. What is it?"  
:::We have detected a derelict ship floating in space approximately three light   
years from here. We can detect no life signs from this distance.:::  
"Any sign of what kind of ship it is?" she asked cautiously.  
:::It does not have the configuration of a Borg vessel, Captain.:::  
"Call the rest of the senior officers to the bridge. We're on our way," she said   
with a crooked smile as she broke the connection and gathered up her dinner   
tray. "Commander, I've got a hunch our luck is about to take a turn for the   
better."  
"And I hope you're right."  
*^*^*^*^*^*  
Act 3  
"There are some power systems running on the ship, but it appears to be on   
minimal standby," Seven reported crisply from her favorite post, next to the   
viewscreen in the conference room.  
"And you're sure that no one is on board?" Janeway asked. "Some forms of life   
are so different from ourselves they don't always register, especially from this   
far away."  
"We'll continuously make contact with the vessel as we approach, Captain. That   
shouldn't be a problem," Harry said.  
Stifling a yawn, B'Elanna said, "We're not approaching anything until the ship   
repairs are finished. That won't be for a couple of days, unless I skip . . ."   
--this time her yawn was unstifled-- ". . . certain diagnostics that I won't   
skip."  
Tom, not even bothering to try to stifle his grin, added, "The Delta Flyer is   
ready to go. We could take a team over there to check it out, Captain, to see   
what might be salvageable for Voyager to use."  
From the viewscreen of the conference room, as he used to in the days before his   
mobile emitter when he had no personal access to areas outside of Sickbay and   
the holodecks, the EMH said, "Mr. Paris, If I can't even spare the time to leave   
Sickbay for this meeting, I can't spare you. With six patients still requiring   
treatment here, two of them comatose, and another dozen resting in their   
quarters needing periodic monitoring, I need a full medical staff. Your services   
in particular will be required for the next several days."  
A subdued Tom replied, "Of course, Doc. That 'we' was figurative. He's right,   
Captain. I really can't be go on this mission."  
Harry cleared his throat. "Ops is in very good hands. Lang and Peterson worked   
with me on the computer repairs all day. They're very competent to finish up   
anything that needs to be done without me. I'd like to volunteer to command this   
mission," Harry offered, then suddenly remembered himself. "Unless Commander   
Chakotay can be spared, of course."  
Janeway exchanged a quick glance with her first officer. After almost seven   
years in the Delta Quadrant, his minuscule nod of agreement and the glint of   
amusement in his eye was all she needed to know his stand. Turning to her   
security officer, she took Tuvok's steady gaze and absence of comment for his   
assent, as well. "I don't believe I can spare having either Chakotay or Tuvok   
off Voyager at the moment, Harry. The mission is yours. Assemble a team and   
prepare to depart as soon as you're ready.  
"Aye, aye, Captain," Harry replied enthusiastically.  
"We'll announce that we're looking for volunteers, Harry, but you might want to   
consider taking Noah Lessing," Chakotay casually commented. "I believe he can be   
spared. There probably won't be a lot who can go who have his amount of   
experience."  
"I'll do that, Commander," Harry agreed.  
Janeway refrained from adding anything to Chakotay's suggestion, although her   
first impulse had been to nominate someone else. Truthfully, he probably was one   
of the few whose duties would permit him to go on a mission like this. Janeway   
thought about offering Harry a few other possibilities but was interrupted by an   
odd noise from the side of the table where Lieutenants Paris and Torres were   
seated. Everyone's attention was drawn in that direction, just in time to catch   
a glimpse of a dozing engineer's head being caught, thanks to the quick pilot's   
reflexes of her husband, just before her forehead banged into the conference   
room table.  
"May the chief field medic have permission to accompany the chief engineer to   
her quarters, Captain?" Tom asked as muffled guffaws erupted from Harry. "I've   
just prescribed several hours of sleep, and she seems more than ready to begin   
her therapy."  
"I think that's my cue for ending this meeting. Harry, if you need anything,   
just let the commander or me know. Dismissed."  
"What?" B'Elanna said blearily, as Tom helped her out of her chair and out the   
door.  
After a few whispered words with Tuvok and Chakotay before leaving the   
conference room, Harry stopped by his quarters to fetch his flight bag and   
hustled to the shuttle bay. It was still rare, although no longer unheard of,   
for him to command a mission. There were other officers of higher rank not on   
the senior staff the captain might have assigned instead. If he let his true   
feelings show, he'd be dancing to the Delta Flyer.  
When Harry arrived at the shuttle bay, he had a surprise waiting for him. His   
volunteers were there: Noah Lessing, Angelo Tessoni, Brian Sofin, and James   
Morrow, all of the Equinox crewmen, minus Marla Gilmore, of course; Tal Celes;   
and William Telfer. Harry couldn't help being surprised. After Chakotay's   
comment, he more or less expected Lessing and was pleased about it, since he had   
experience as an officer, although he was only a crewman now. He hadn't expected   
the others, and he had at least two more volunteers than he could reasonably   
take on the mission. At least there was one he could weed out without hurting   
any feelings.  
"Brian, aren't you still on injury report from that shattered ankle?"  
"Don't worry, Ensign Kim. Even injured, I'm all the 'muscle' you would want."  
Everyone laughed.  
"Seriously, I want to go along. This is the first away mission that I've had a   
chance to go on for a long time. I'd like to do what I can for the ship . . .   
and for Marla. She'd want to go along, too, if she were able."  
"That's sort of why we want to come, too, Ensign Kim. We want to do whatever we   
can--after Mortimer--" Tal seemed on the verge of tears, gulping audibly, and   
unable to finish out her thought.  
Harry pondered the situation for a moment. He understood their motivations, but   
he couldn't take all of them. He didn't have much trouble making the decision on   
whom to take, however. Even though Telfer had participated in several away   
missions successfully in recent months, he almost never volunteered for any. The   
fact that he was asking for this mission was a definite plus, even if it was   
prompted by the loss of Mortimer Harren. Now might not be the best time for him   
to be off the ship, however, and he couldn't take the chance on Sofin right now.  
"Lessing, Morrow, Tessoni, Tal, you're with me. I'm sorry, Brian. Our readings   
about this vessel aren't complete enough for me to be sure about the degree of   
danger to the mission. Until your ankle heals, you might be a liability. I'd   
rather you stay here and work on ship repairs--and to keep Marla company. With   
Noah and me gone, who's going to read to her?"  
Although obviously disappointed, Brian smiled weakly. "Okay, Ensign. I'll take   
that as an order."  
"You do that, Brian. Mr. Telfer--your talents would be better suited to staying   
here and working with Lang and Peterson on the computers--and anything else   
Lieutenant Torres has for you to do. She's got plenty to do."  
"Yes, sir. Umm, is it true she fell asleep in the middle of your staff meeting?"  
"You heard about that? Already? Boy, news sure gets around fast on this ship.   
Who told you?"  
"Seven." Telfer replied.  
"SEVEN! Now I've heard everything," Harry exclaimed, as the rest laughed.  
Tal Celes remarked casually, as the laughter was winding down, "There hasn't   
been enough 'funny' to gossip about lately, you know? I think we all needed it."  
The chuckling became more subdued, but there was no denying that the spirits of   
everyone seemed much brighter than they had been for the past few days. Having   
something positive to do did that for a crew, Harry decided, as he dismissed   
Telfer and Sofin and briefed the rest of his team on their duties for the   
mission. Going out into space and exploring the unknown--that's what this crew   
did best. He felt confident, seeing the enthusiasm that his team was displaying,   
especially the Equinox people. They would be ready for anything.  
*^*^*^*^*  
So far, the trip had been routine. Harry was alert but relaxed, listening to his   
team joking with one another in between reports about the status of the Delta   
Flyer and the vessel towards which they were headed. They seemed more   
comfortable with each other than Harry had suspected--certainly more comfortable   
with each other than Harry was with any of them--but then, that made sense. The   
"Lower Decks" people spent more time with each other than they did with anyone   
on the senior staff. Harry felt the distance of being the one in command rather   
than being "just another one of the team," as he usually was. It wasn't a wholly   
pleasurable feeling.  
From tactical, Noah asked, "May I ask you something, Tal?"  
"Sure. Don't promise I'll answer, though," she said teasingly.  
"Why does Captain Janeway call you Crewman Celes all the time? I thought Bajoran   
family names come first."  
"They do."  
"So . . . " Noah continued.  
She sighed. "Somebody at Starfleet goofed when I came on board Voyager. The crew   
manifest listed me as 'Celes Tal.' Everybody called me 'Crewman Celes' for the   
longest time."  
"Didn't you ask them to correct the mistake?" asked Angelo Tessoni, from his   
seat at the engineering station.  
"I just let it go. I didn't want to cause a problem."  
Angelo said, "But they got your name wrong! Didn't it bug you?"  
"Well, yeah. But eventually, Tabor told Lieutenant Torres my name was reversed,   
so she had the manifest corrected."  
"So why do you let the captain still call you 'Celes'?" Noah asked.  
"Hey, the captain can call me anything she wants. I'll bet she calls you 'Noah,'   
doesn't she?"  
"Not that I know of. Not to my face, anyway," Noah replied pensively. "But   
you're right. If she wanted to call me by my first name, I wouldn't object."  
Celes, oblivious to the change in Noah's mood, turned to Harry. "What about you,   
Ensign Kim? Does she call you Harry?"  
"Occasionally."  
"There you go," Celes said. "She can call me what she wants, but the rest of you   
better call me 'Tal' unless we get really friendly."  
"That's fine with me, Crewman Tal," Angelo drawled. "Better that way. Calling   
you 'Celes Tal' would be very distracting. Makes me think of Celes-T-al bodies.   
And . . ."  
"Don't start, Angelo!" Noah groaned. "If you let him get to flirting with you,   
Tal, next thing you know, he'll be giving you flowers and candy and sending   
sickening love notes on your computer . . ."  
"And this is supposed to be a problem?" Tal giggled, glancing towards the   
engineering station, where Angelo was leering, but with a big grin on his face.   
"But not now! We're on a mission!"  
"It's about time somebody noticed, people!" Harry said, but with a chuckle, to   
let everyone know he wasn't really bothered by their banter. "Any more ideas   
about the energy readings from our target, TAL?" exaggerating her name to let   
her know that, despite the humorous exchange, he knew she was deadly serious   
about how she wanted to be called by the crew.  
Crisply, she answered, "They're still fluctuating, sir. It could be from back-up   
generator power that's starting to run down. Whatever it is, I can't identify   
the type of energy source. It's either something very different from what we're   
used to, or it's being masked in some way. It almost looks like there's some   
sort of dampening field operating, now that we're getting close, but I can't   
tell for sure."  
Noah added, "This ship is very badly damaged. If the original configuration is   
like most we've seen, what I think used to be the bridge seems to have been   
ripped right off. There's definitely some sort of shielding and energy-force   
activated hull integrity protection in that part of the ship. And I agree with   
Tal--I can't tell what kind of energy source they're using, either. And this   
thing is even bigger that we thought. You could fit three, maybe even four   
Voyagers inside of it, even without the bridge area."  
"Can you tell what caused the damage?"  
Noah was silent for a few seconds, and when it came, his reply was subdued. "I'm   
getting Borg weapons signatures, sir."  
The mood in the cabin changed palpably to one of heightened alertness. Tal was   
the first to speak. "I'm not getting any sign of Borg life signs or vessels in   
the vicinity, but shouldn't we warn Voyager?"  
"The weapons fire doesn't seem to have been recent," Noah observed. "From the   
rate of residual energy decay, I'd say it's been a few weeks since the damage   
occurred. At least thirty days, probably more."  
Harry nodded, relieved, but he felt compelled to signal down to the lower   
compartment, "Morrow, we've detected signs of Borg involvement as a cause of the   
vessel's damage. It's not recent, so it's not a surprise to us, but we'll be   
approaching with due caution."  
:::Understood, sir::: Morrow replied.  
"Tal, send your message advising Voyager of our findings--but make sure to   
include there's no sign of Borg activity in the area now. We're about due to   
check in with the captain anyway."  
"Aye, sir."  
Quelling an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he switched to external   
communications, Harry followed mission protocols and called, "Alien vessel--this   
is Ensign Harry Kim of the Federation vessel Delta Flyer. We are willing and   
able to render you any assistance you may require. Alien vessel--this is the   
Delta Flyer . . ."  
If any of the away team had been inclined to perceive humor in the way Harry   
referred to the Delta Flyer as a Federation vessel rather than a shuttle, no   
trace could be seen on their faces. The magic word "Borg" had ruthlessly   
destroyed the pleasant mood of camaraderie, transforming them all back to a team   
of professionals, at work in a dangerous galaxy.  
*^*^*^*^*  
Act 4  
The instrument reading on the console screen shifted rapidly as Icheb entered   
his data. Coiled strands of DNA depicted on the display flew by as he analyzed   
and reanalyzed critical sections of the sample tagged as "Brunali--male." With a   
quick nod, a humorless smile flickering on his lips, Icheb highlighted the   
section he'd been looking for and made a tiny, but potentially momentous   
modification to the order of base pairs making up the strand's "ladder."   
Satisfied, he turned to a second bank of instruments to analyze another   
microscopic sample. "Nanoprobe--Borg--modification type beta 5--modification   
stardate 51476.3."  
Carefully coordinating the two instruments, Icheb planted the modified DNA into   
the nanoprobe, one of several generations which the Doctor and Seven altered for   
medical purposes during the first year Seven had been on board Voyager, "safe"   
nanoprobes that would not cause Borg implants to form, once the danger the   
unmodified miniature machines could present was recognized. This modification to   
the nanoprobe would, he hoped, serve the opposite purpose--to a Borg. None of   
the power of these nanoprobes was wasted on creating Borg implants. All of it   
was dedicated to the transference of a virus into the body of a Borg drone, a   
virus of an even more lethal form to cybernetic implants of the Borg kind than   
that which he carried within his own body, courtesy of his loving parents--if he   
had planned things correctly.  
After confirming that the nanoprobes had in fact become infused with the genetic   
material and were being transformed into becoming the infectious agent rather   
than having to rely on an assimilated humanoid body to serve that purpose, Icheb   
leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A wave of sadness overwhelmed him   
rather than the feelings of triumph one might otherwise expect.  
The Brunali had developed gene manipulation techniques to a degree unknown to   
Federation scientists, even though their understanding of nanoprobe technology   
was actually inferior to that of the Federation--and downright primitive   
compared to the knowledge of the Borg on the subject. The Borg, after all,   
depended upon nanoprobes for reproduction by using them to steal the beings of   
other races, transmogrifying them into drones. Those on Voyager had been forced   
to become intimately acquainted with nanotechnology after being thrown into the   
Delta Quadrant. The survival of all those on board Voyager had depended upon the   
acquisition of this knowledge from the Borg, and they had learned their lessons   
well. Realistically the Brunali could never have done what Icheb was attempting   
to do with his modifications. They needed another method of deployment: the   
sacrifice of one of their young. Icheb.  
When he really considered the problem, Icheb could rationalize why his parents   
did what they did. What choice did they have? Yet on another level, he simply   
could not comprehend how they could have coldly created their only child to be a   
weapon of destruction, even as he was destroyed by the doing. They bred him, as   
some races did animals for ingestion as food, allowing him only a short life,   
with no opportunity to function as a grown, independent being, capable of making   
choices of career and family--in essence, capable of having a future of his own.   
Desperate beings fearing for their extinction as a separate people might well   
conceive of such a desolate plan. He understood that. But why did his parents   
choose to be the ones to sacrifice their own progeny for this purpose? Were they   
chosen by lot to contribute the body to be impregnated with the virus? Had they   
never really wanted a child of their own at all and were therefore willing to   
provide one for the community, for the greater good? Had he always been simply   
an object to be used, rather than a person to be loved for his own sake? And if   
so, how different was that than the way the Borg utilized their drones?  
Seeing the way things were on Voyager had opened Icheb's eyes to how precious   
the bond between parent and child could be. He saw how Ensign Wildman cherished   
Naomi. He recognized that Lieutenants Paris and Torres had fought over their   
daughter's genetic inheritance for her future good, as disparate as their   
preferences for how she would look and act in that future might have been. Seven   
had taken on the responsibility for Icheb, Mezoti, Rebi, Azan, and for a short   
time, although initially reluctant, the baby from the maturation chamber. She   
continued to provide Icheb with a sense of being nurtured as an individual   
worthy of respect now that he was the only one of the "Children's Collective"   
remaining on board Voyager. Her affection was of the sisterly type, he presumed,   
yet it was genuine. He never thought she said or did anything concerning him   
that did not have his welfare in mind. Even Captain Janeway had shown many times   
she was as much a mother to her crew as she was their superior officer. She   
might not always be perfect in the way she behaved (or so the crew said   
privately), but she had been ready to sacrifice herself to the Borg to save her   
crew in the matter of Unimatrix Zero.  
His own parents had chosen to sacrifice Icheb. Twice.  
Despite the bitterness he increasingly felt about his parents' treatment--or at   
least his mother's, since he perceived his father  
had been coerced into agreeing to the second sacrifice--whenever he recalled   
that cold, cruel voice in his head, discounting him as an irrelevancy, as   
unworthy of consideration as a wayward thought, Icheb knew he must use his   
terrible legacy to save those he had learned to care about so very much on   
Voyager. If it were his destiny to be the weapon by which the Borg should lose   
their own futures, in payment for robbing so many beings of their birthright,   
than it must be so. The Borg must be utterly destroyed if the peoples of the   
galaxy were ever to have the chance to live in peace.  
His parents may have provided the means, but if he had to sacrifice his own body   
and life to do this, at least it would be by his own choice, not someone else's.   
Icheb would be the one to prevent those who would be the Borg's next victims   
from being assimilated. He would protect the people of Voyager, who had adopted   
him and accepted him as one of them though he was an alien to the peoples of   
their own quadrant, who would save the most precious of all from the danger of   
becoming one of the living lost--Naomi.  
Whenever he thought of Naomi becoming one of the assimilated, he felt like an   
ancient being who had seen terrible things in his life he had been helpless to   
stop. It was as if he suddenly had experienced a growth spurt as rapid and   
extensive as the one that had transformed Naomi from a child to a girl on the   
verge of becoming a woman in only a few short months, but in his case, the   
transformation had been from youth to old age.  
Yet, he also felt something more, an all-encompassing feeling of tenderness,   
warmth, and belonging. Though he had observed others who shared this before, he   
had never felt it for himself--until now.  
For some time Icheb had recognized he had "feelings" for Naomi, but now he had a   
name for those feelings. He was in love with her. Hearing her name was a song   
that thrilled his soul. He loved her every bit as much as Lieutenant Paris and   
Lieutenant Torres loved each other, he was certain. He would gladly sacrifice   
his life to save Naomi, if he had to. He just hoped he wouldn't have to.  
And if these nanoprobes worked the way he hoped, he wouldn't need to lose his   
own life to protect hers. They act as the carriers of contagion, the nemesis of   
the Borg. Tiny little nanoprobes, recognized by the Borg as a part of themselves   
and totally innocuous. They would not seem to be dangerous. Nothing about them   
would cause the Borg protective response of adaptation. Yet the virus they   
contained would separate the drones from the rest of the Collective, destroy   
their implants, cut them off from communication with the hive. And without that   
communication, the Borg Queen could not order the destruction of the infected   
vessels. The nanoprobes would remain after the drones were dead, lurking in   
vessels devoid of their malevolent life forms, ready to be retrieved and reused   
by the Borg and thereby spreading to other hives.  
He had been trying to find a way for the severance to be transmitted through the   
communication lines of the Borg. He had not yet succeeded in this goal, but he   
felt he was close to discovering the secret. The queen could do it, so there   
must be a way. And when he found that way, either by destroying the drones or   
the network that linked them together, the threat to the galaxy would end.  
Then there would be time for a peaceful journey to the Alpha Quadrant with his   
friends on Voyager. There would be warlike races on the way, of course, like the   
Hirogen or the Vardwaar or others he had learned about from Voyager's logs.   
Icheb was confident, however, that Voyager could survive them. As they traveled,   
Naomi would finish her last growth spurt and become the beautiful woman he knew   
she would be. There would be time for him to win over Ensign Wildman, who looked   
at him with a very sour expression sometimes when he was with Naomi, as if she   
didn't really want him around, and . . .  
:::Seven of Nine to Icheb. Icheb, are you there?:::  
"Icheb here."  
:::Is your comm unit malfunctioning? I have been trying to reach you for one   
minute, twenty-seven seconds.:::  
"I apologize, Seven. I did not hear your communication."  
:::You should go to the Doctor for an examination . . . unless . . . you were   
not hearing the Borg Queen through your transceivers again, were you?:::  
"No. I was concentrating on my experiments in the medical laboratory."  
:::I require your assistance in Astrometrics to maximize the efficiency of our   
sensors. Ensign Kim has reported suspected Borg activity in the area of the   
Delta Flyer. Their sensors are not as sensitive as the ones on this vessel.:::  
"I will come as soon as the instruments have finished recording the data from my   
experiment . . ."  
:::Come now. Set your instruments to save your data as it is collected by your   
instruments. You can retrieve your results later.:::  
After a moment's hesitation, Icheb answered, "I will comply. Icheb out." While   
he could not completely shut down the computer terminal where he was working   
without ruining the nanoprobe modifications, he could clear the "telltale"   
display screens from showing the data they were collecting, replacing them with   
the "Instrument in data collection mode--do not disengage" message. Seven had   
correctly assessed the situation. If the Borg were still in this region of   
space, Astrometrics was the priority at this time.  
After checking the screens one last time and satisfied that his experiment was   
proving to be a success, Icheb cleared the screens and left the medical lab to   
join Seven in Astrometrics.  
*^*^*^*^*  
Ten minutes later, Ensign Wildman entered the medical lab, grumbling a bit under   
her breath about imperious medical holograms who ordered field medics around   
without giving them a chance to breathe while on duty, let alone perform   
assigned tasks efficiently. And, of course, now Icheb had been pulled into   
Astrometrics when they really needed his help in Sickbay. Where were those   
nanoprobe samples he'd been working on, anyway? What progress had he made   
developing that new therapy he claimed showed such promise in curing poor   
Gilmore and Pierce?  
"Always underfoot when I don't want him around, and never nearby when I do--a   
typical male!" she muttered as she checked out each bank of instruments in the   
lab.  
Several of them had results glowing on their displays, but Sam couldn't find any   
that involved nanoprobes delivering medicines or gene splices to brain tissue to   
make nerves regenerate. Two sets in the corner read, "Data collection   
complete--auto save activated." Sam turned the displays back on to see what data   
these instruments had recorded.  
"Ah, hah! Nanoprobes! These must be the ones," Sam said to herself, then groaned   
in dismay. Although the nanoprobes had been infused with genetic material, she   
could see from the patterns of the DNA strands on the display that the genes   
spliced into them were viral in nature. She'd heard of using viruses to   
introduce gene splices into the nuclei of cells. It was an old technique, first   
perfected in the early twenty-first century, although introduced well before the   
turn of the millennium. This virus didn't seem to be a carrier, though, but   
rather an infectious agent in and of itself. At least it wasn't based on human   
genetics. It shouldn't cause any harm to Pierce or Gilmore, but Sam couldn't see   
how it would help them, either. The gene source was Brunali, although it had   
been modified, so it might turn out to be . . .  
Sam sat down suddenly onto the stool in front of the console as her legs   
threatened to collapse beneath her. Sam Wildman, whose primary function on board   
Voyager was as an exobiologist, not a field medic, suddenly realized what this   
Brunali gene sample might represent. No harm to Pierce and Gilmore, it was true,   
nor help, unfortunately; but to another species, this could mean death.  
As much as she feared that other species, Sam could not condone what she   
suspected was being done. The young man was supposed to be researching a cure   
for his crewmates, not following an agenda his parents had established for him   
before he was born.  
She should go to the captain about this, but there was a danger for her if this   
should be a legitimate attempt on Icheb's part to search for a cure. If she were   
wrong, Sam's own credibility and objectivity might be called into question.   
She'd commented to several people, not just Neelix, that she was wearying of   
Icheb's ubiquitous presence in her family life. She needed to do some research   
of her own before making any accusations about him.  
After signaling the EMH to confirm Icheb's absence and let the Doctor know she   
would remain in the lab for a while, Sam set to work on analyzing the data Icheb   
had left behind. She had to be sure.  
*^*^*^*^*  
Epilogue  
"Are you sure about those readings, Tal?" Harry asked.  
"As sure as I can be with the way the energy fluctuations are interfering.   
Oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere, with traces--whoever built this was from an M-class   
planet originally, but it looks like those corridors aren't even two meters   
high. They're a lot less in spots. Noah will have to crouch down and scuttle   
through."  
The lanky ex-officer shook his head emphatically. "I'll be fine. I'll crawl if I   
have to, but I'm going."  
Harry shook his head as he fastened the transporter remote control to his upper   
arm. "No, you're not going. It would be better for you to stay behind and   
monitor us, Noah. Between you staying here and these remotes, we'll be able to   
get out of trouble if necessary. When we're assured there's no danger, we'll   
call you over to crawl around then, OK?"  
Lessing shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "Aye, sir."  
"Still no life signs, right, Tal?"  
"No, sir. None."  
The rest of his team was waiting calmly, expectantly, exactly what Harry   
expected to see. The point and rear guards carried the large phasers everyone   
called "big Betsy"--when they weren't calling them "Janeway specials" (but only   
when the captain was nowhere around). Each member of the team could transport   
back to the Delta Flyer in a second with the remotes on their arms. Harry felt a   
surge of pride. It was a privilege to be their commanding officer.  
"OK, people. Listen up. We don't know what we're getting into over there, but my   
gut's telling me to be cautious. Tessoni, you take point. Tal, and I will follow   
you. Morrow, you take the rear. Everyone, look sharp and be careful."  
The team went into a crouch, to compensate for the tight quarters into which   
they were beaming. Harry gave the signal, and the tingling of the transporter   
heralded the illusion that it was the Delta Flyer disappearing and dim alien   
corridors appearing out of thin air, rather than the away team.  
"Who the heck built this thing, anyway? Hobbits?" Angelo muttered from his   
position in front of Harry, as alien deck solidified beneath their feet. Harry   
felt a little buoyant, since the gravity was about 85% Earth normal. It wouldn't   
be much help, though. Bouncing lightly in these low corridors wasn't a pleasant   
prospect.  
"I was thinking Snow White and the Seven Dwarves myself," Harry admitted before   
turning towards Tal. "How are the readings now?"  
"Clearer. Whoever built this was pretty small. Look at the size of the manual   
hatch controls!"  
In the shadows cast by greenish emergency lighting--unfortunately recalling Borg   
ship lighting, although without the steamy atmosphere associated with cubes and   
spheres--Harry noted that the controls were half the size of standard ones. The   
place looked like something out of a Trevis and Flotter program, or a nursery   
school playhouse. Harry's tricorder, like Tal's, revealed no hidden dangers,   
however. After a few more seconds, Harry signaled to Angelo to start forward   
through the passageway.  
"Either this ship is a lot older and out of repair than it seems or the beings   
who owned this ship had strong little hands," Angelo reported after grunting his   
way through opening the first door handle. Their progress was slow. All the   
hatch handles turned out to be stiff and difficult to turn, although eventually   
he got the knack of twisting them just right, stopping and listening for a few   
seconds after pushing the door open, and then stepping over the high threshold   
into the next section of corridor.  
It would have been a fairly benign trip, despite the need to keep his knees   
flexed slightly so that he wouldn't bang his bead, if the ceiling, walls and   
floors didn't have some sort of burn or blaster marks on them. While they found   
no sign of any bodies, the reason every section had a door which was locked down   
tightly was obvious. There had been a fire fight here--and the absence of bodies   
suggested the possibility that there still might be some sort of beings living   
in this vessel, even though life signs were absent.  
"Do you think the Borg assimilated them all?" Tal asked when they paused inside   
a junction in which three doors confronted them as they exited a fourth. She   
looked concerned, although her voice did not waver.  
"Maybe it was an unmanned ship," Morrow said from his rearguard position as he   
stepped through the hatch. "Although that doesn't fit with all of these locked   
doors, or the blaster marks, or the atmosphere in here, you know what I mean?"  
As soon as Morrow mentioned it, Harry realized that was what was bothering him.   
Life support was working perfectly. While that could happen on a "ghost ship,"   
life support systems often started breaking down in a matter of days if not   
properly maintained. Despite the blaster marks, which looked pretty fresh, there   
was no trace of a burnt smell from the scorch marks as they passed by. Even   
scorched metal left a characteristic scent, often from microscopic melted areas   
on the surface. Here, there was none. Harry could swear that somebody had   
cleaned up a mess on board this vessel.  
Angelo finally got the door in front of them open, and one by one they stepped   
into a more open area, where the ceiling was almost two and a half meters from   
the floor. Even Noah Lessing could have straightened his back here. The floor   
space that stretched out before them was huge, dotted with many pillars   
scattered around to support the roof above them. The lighting was much brighter   
here, with a yellow-green tinge to it, although for all practical purposes the   
light was white to Harry's eyes. There was an earthy sort of scent to the   
atmosphere in this area, mingled with the odor of machine oils and metal, and   
the air was humid, almost damp. Between the pillars, Harry saw many low   
consoles, coming up to about knee level on him, most of which were covered with   
green foliage in various hues.  
"It's a farm!" Tessoni said, standing up straighter.  
Harry held his crouch. The plants looked well cared for. Too well cared for to   
have been abandoned over a month ago. Even more ominously, he noted that the   
indicator light on his remote had stopped blinking green, indicating the   
transporter lock had been broken. Hitting his comm badge, Harry called out, "Kim   
to Lessing. Noah, is everything OK out there?" There was no answer from the   
Delta Flyer.  
Tal was the one who replied to him. "Uh, oh! Ensign Kim? About those life sign   
readings? I'm starting to get them now. A lot of them."  
Harry shouted, "Take cover!" and dove behind one of the consoles, which provided   
little shelter. He heard energy weapons whining, the shriek of overstressed   
metal giving way as light fixtures tumbled to the floor around them, and over it   
all, incongruously, the babble of children's voices, screeching in an   
incomprehensible tongue.  
*^*^*^*^*  
End Part 1  
  
  
  
Go to Part II 


End file.
